Snuff
by The Illegible
Summary: At a certain point Lahabrea desperately needs to take a nap.


Few utilize the private quarters of the Waking Sands. Although technically property of the Scions and thus equipped with their rooms and workspaces, in reality they are rarely all in use. The Ala Mhigan girl and her lalafell friend (Yda and Papalymo, Lahabrea is aware but such details are of little consequence outside the part he plays) prefer to spend their time in Gridania while the miqo'te woman… Y'shtola, favors Limsa Lominsa.

Of all the obnoxious things to keep track of.

Thancred's most consistent company—and so, Lahabrea's—includes the Antecedent, the elezen, and Tataru. The other lalafell.

Oh hells with it.

The Ascian, having taken over his host's quarters along with his body, releases a loud and enduring exhale. The lamp is nearly finished, shadows long over the walls. A woman's discarded smallclothes remain piled on the floor near the bed. They have, evidently, been there for some time. He's already taken it upon himself to wash the man's filthy sheets, to pick up quills and documents that had (so mysteriously) taken residence on the floor. In their wake the desk has a disturbingly hyur-sized gap, and this is something Lahabrea wants neither to think about nor interact with. So he sits on the floor with his books and his own notes.

Until his joints begin to ache from stagnation at least, which is absurdly soon considering the youth of his vessel.

Of course.

Hands held tight behind his back (posture Thancred would never willingly adopt, something Lahabrea understands instinctively even as he chews his lower lip in _another_ habit peculiar to himself), he begins to pace.

For the time being he has access to all the resources of his enemy, all the information needed to reach a current understanding of "Beast Tribe" political finery. Exploit them to generate a power source for the Heart. He has, admittedly, permitted himself to fall behind on such matters in recent decades. With those sundered of their number otherwise occupied, the direct task of resource management and collecting fuel falls to him. As do negotiations with the Legate. As do keeping the mannerisms of his vessel straight along with the names and minute details of each colleague.

Minfilia possesses a fondness of pancakes and perfumes, has embarrassing difficulty riding chocobos. Urianger may in fact be faking his entire persona for private amusement but this has yet to be proven.

Tataru…

Tataru is_ insufferable_. Involved in everything and everyone at all times. She's knocked on his door no less than thrice today, voicing concern that he has not emerged for food or drink in a mere eighteen hours. Nor has he slept in longer, but that she need not know.

Thancred is accustomed to such work. Thancred engages similar activity on a regular basis. Thancred's eyes feel ready to fall out of their sockets for Lahabrea's dubious pleasure after memorizing the history of Sylphic relations with men, complete with small lettering and an occasional grammatical error on the author's part. And as if that were not enough, Thancred's head feels about ready to split open like an egg.

Hells.

_Hells._

They will never let him hear the end of this. "Can't even manage a few beastfolk, Lahabrea? Really?" Meanwhile, Emet-Selch spends half his days sleeping when he could be contributing a moment or two to the Rejoining but no. No, staying awake too is a paltry task that Lahabrea ought be able to handle all by himself along with countless other insultingly easy responsibilities that alone would be nothing to speak of. Together though, with his vessel's _intolerable_ headache, he finds himself fumbling at details.

Damn them all.

Ask him about the history of the Ixali in Allag, he could recite it in a blink. Their present beliefs and customs have been, until recently, irrelevant. And their hostility toward Gridania overlaps in such ways with the dynamic held between Amal'ja and Ul'dah that he catches himself confusing details between the two more often than he likes.

Elements are clear. Eikons are clear. The rest? Superficial nonsense, but superficial nonsense he must be prepared to _use_ at a moment's notice.

He drops his hands. Without missing a beat, he strides out the door, into the hall, up the stairs.

"Thancred!" exclaims Tataru, evidently delighted by what she perceives as a victory. "Are you finally going to-"

_"No."_

Out the door. Out of the Waking Sands.

It's approaching sundown, apparently. The sun shines a darkening orange as the sky turns pink and purple and a deep, dark blue.

There is a dock nearby. This, Lahabrea approaches.

In a perfect world, a _complete _world, there would be no witnesses nearby and he could scream at the infernal sun to his hearts content. But there are witnesses enjoying what might be a beautiful evening, and so Lahabrea only presses Thancred's palms into his aching, _aching_ eyes and kneels on the ground.

Awful.

Truly awful.

When he began to feel so tired he can't recall. The Source is too heavy and too bright and too dull and he despises it with every fiber of his being.

He finds himself speaking in circles, more often than not. And laughing at things which, objectively, shouldn't be funny. When Bahamut, sealed behind enough barriers to endure several Calamities and hurled into the heavens, returned out of nowhere after some odd thousand years to wreak havoc on their behalf—it was bizarrely, surreally hilarious.

Of all things.

And his sundered assistant only stared at him like a man gone mad. From the glances he collected following their great success… the others had misgivings as well.

But he'd succeeded. They'd done it. And they'd done it with an extraterrestrial dragon exploding out of the moon.

Despite himself, Lahabrea can't help but chuckle quietly.

* * *

The sky dims. Lahabrea, having allowed himself some minutes to breathe, begins to stand.

Wobbles.

Steadies.

Walks, far less briskly, back toward the disgusting room that awaits him.

A moth beats around the entrance lantern. It nearly hits him in the face, an experience he ducks to avoid. It is for this reason, really, that he is caught off-guard.

_"Hold it right there!"_ shouts Tataru as he slips back into her office.

The door shuts behind him. There are faint spots as his eyes adjust. The tiny receptionist is marching straight toward him, brows knit, mouth tight. An expression that might have been daunting on any other only looks absurd for her.

"Wha-" he begins, only to find a surprisingly sharp finger jabbed into his stomach.

"No more excuses!" she says, no less forcefully. "You are going to sit down and have dinner and go to bed, and I swear if you so much as begin to argue with me I'll- I'll drag you there myself."

Lahabrea finds himself staring, slack-jawed. Tataru takes one of his hands and, furiously, makes a valiant effort to pull him toward her desk.

There is a small curry there, steaming. A glass of orange juice beside it.

Abruptly, it occurs to him that if he doesn't eat something immediately he really might die on the spot.

And that would be inconvenient.

* * *

"Slow down, you're going to make yourself sick!"

_Or choke,_ Lahabrea considers belatedly with a cough. He downs the juice in one go, which takes some moments and leaves Thancred's eyes watering even as his lungs burn.

He doubles over after that, one hand still holding a spoon that trembles slightly. Waits for his body to catch up with him.

This was a mistake. It may not be beyond Tataru to drug her friends.

He feels, inexplicably, more miserable than he did before.

Another failed trial. Another weakness. Of body and mind both. Elidibus has been warning him for years, but there is work to do and he-

He can't close his eyes.

* * *

Tataru does, in fact, drag him back to his room afterward. He thinks he almost managed to escape. The sink is in another part of the building. Once the dishes were dispensed with he could sneak back to his quarters and lock her out and do what he would.

"No. Do you really think I've forgotten last time? You've done enough and you're going to bed and I'll hear no more arguments about it," says the lalafell. "March."

Lahabrea does not march. If anything, he stumbles quietly in her wake and watches the back of her head and contemplates vague, unpleasant experiences he hopes will fall into her lap.

Down the stairs. Into the hall. Through the door.

"Eugh," says Tataru, clutching her nose with her free hand. She glances about, pauses. Reddens. "How long have those been there?"

Lahabrea doesn't look up. Doesn't sigh. Doesn't shrug. Doesn't answer in any way whatsoever.

He _refuses_ to be ashamed of a mess that is not his own.

"In the morning," Tataru goes on, as if he will sleep until morning, "we are straightening this mess up. It's unacceptable-why, it's a wonder you haven't caught something already!"

"One would think," he says, and though the voice belongs to Thancred the words are his own, "you were my mother, with how you carry on."

Tataru squints at him. Something between a glare and a deeply exasperated smile crosses her face. She points at the mattress. "Bed. Now."

For a moment he only stares at it.

The bed does not, in fact, stare back. But if it could, he does not doubt that it would do so.

It is this thought which ultimately persuades him to comply.

* * *

She does not tuck him in, Zodiark be praised. That, he does himself.

"Don't tell me," says Lahabrea, as the Lalafell picks up his research, stacking one book on top of another, "that you mean to watch."

Tataru's smile is utterly terrifying and stripped of pity. "I don't have to," she informs him.

She snuffs the lamp out.

"Goodnight, Thancred," she says. And then she leaves with his work.

* * *

He does not, in fact, sleep until morning.

He sleeps well into the next afternoon.

And with the mercy of a dreamless night, maybe that's for the best.


End file.
